The Strings of the Violin
by thegirlinthedeathfrisbee
Summary: One-Shot. John knows that Sherlock often plays his violin while in thought. He forgets, however, the eccentricities of Sherlock Holmes playing the violin. Pre-Reichenbach. Fluff. Nudity. R/R s'il vous plait!


_John, start the kettle. I need tea. - SH_

John rolled his eyes. 'I'm not in the flat, you dick' he thought harshly as he tapped the words into the mini-keyboard of his cellphone. Before sending, he promptly backspaced the term "you dick", instead leaving a simple, short statement.

_I'm not in the flat. - JW_

He pocketed the phone once again, turning his attention back to the pretty blonde before him. He smiled an apologetic smile, offering her another cup of coffee. He and the woman before him—her name was Andrea, he had to remember—had made an early morning breakfast date. He'd told Sherlock about it, of course, but Sherlock was notorious for ignoring such information.

John was just waving the waitress over when his phone vibrated against his ribs once again. He looked apologetically at Andrea, who shrugged easily and turned her attention to the waitress coming to their table. Another message from Sherlock:

_No hurry. However, please keep in mind that we have a case to attend to. Unless, of course, your flourishing social life is more important than possible lives at stake. - SH_

John clenched his jaw. He looked up to find Ana—no, Andrea—and the waitress looking expectantly at him. Before he could say a word, Andrea's face fell. Her lips pursed and she looked up at the waitress. "Dr. Watson's will be to go." she said, then looked back to him, "As usual."

"Allison…" he said quietly.

Her eyes widened and her face stiffened. "Andrea. Thank you. Actually, do you mind just canceling this whole order? I'm not very hungry as it happens." she asked of the waitress. She was standing quickly, grabbing up her coat and throwing it over her shoulders. "No, I meant… I meant Andrea, of course. Please…" he said, standing as well. She was already buttoning her coat and heading for the door. He didn't bother chasing her. He watched her angry profile stalk quickly past the window of the cafe and sighed.

"Here. For the coffee. Thanks." he said wearily, handing over a fiver.

"Sorry mate." the waitress said, pocketing the note.

"Right. Thanks." he replied, shoving his hands into his pockets as he made his way out of cafe.

He was seething by the time he'd reached the door of 221B Baker Street. He had spent the entire walk back planning his speech. He was going to lay it all out flat and tell Sherlock exactly how ridiculous he was, how he seemed to be alienating every other relationship John could make, how much he wanted to throttle him for being so _unbearable_.

Upon opening the familiar dark door of 221B, John could hear Sherlock's violin.

He took the stairs two at a time, rage boiling in his veins. "For someone so_ bloody _concerned with the case, you sure are taking your time to get anything done!" John called before he'd even hit the landing. That was it, he'd had enough. He was _done. _

"_Sherlock, are you even bloody listeni…"_ his argument had begun quite strong and vicious, but it faltered somewhere between the doorway of their flat and the appearance of Sherlock. He was standing before the window, violin tucked under his chin, music stand propped up before him.

And he was stark naked.

He didn't stop playing.

John's eyes widened. He knew, as a heterosexual man, the appropriate response was to turn away. Or cover his eyes. Or shout something to perhaps make Sherlock remember his own nudity. Instead, he found himself staring. He was_ studying _the shape of Sherlock's back. He was tracing the lines of his shoulder blades with his mind, memorizing the way they pushed and pulled beneath his skin. He caught himself sliding his eyes down Sherlock's spine, the deep groove sensual in a way John hadn't expected, leading—of course—to the bareness of Sherlock's bottom. Which, as it happened, was considerably more _plump _than John had anticipated. And, to be frank, a _helluva_ lot nicer.

Sherlock's arm's stopped. The violin ceased. Sherlock was turning in his spot. It was then that John, recalling his sexuality quite suddenly, made a noise of disgust. "Agh, Sherlock. Clothes!" he called out. He lifted his arms, making to _wholly_ cover the naked form before him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John. Honestly." he said, readjusting the violin. He slid the bow softly along the strings, walking gingerly toward John.

"_Please_ Sherlock. Here, let me go—"

The violin emitted a sharp, dissonant sound that caused John to jump. His arms dropped just slightly—enough for him to peer at Sherlock's face without gathering anymore_ information _about Sherlock's body than needed. Sherlock was wearing a smirk. His hair was mussed, his eyes were bright, and his face was relaxed—he'd obviously gotten a fair amount of proper sleep. "I don't like it when you look at me that way." John announced.

"In what way?" Sherlock inquired, letting the violin slide from his chin.

"In that way that says you know something that I've apparently missed." John replied.

"I do."

"And what's that?"

"You… were looking at me." He pointed with his bow, backing up just a few steps. The bow was only inches from John's face. It made him much more nervous than he'd wanted to be. "Wh-what?"

"Thats right John." Sherlock was haughty, and very obviously enjoying himself. He put the violin back to his chin and quietly slid the bow across the strings once again. "You stepped into the flat approximately three minutes ago. Yelling. I heard your footsteps come up the stairs and enter the flat. Now, initially I'd expected to hear the standard response instantaneously. However," he stopped playing here, eyes focusing back on John. "Silence. It wasn't until I had stopped playing—when you realized I might notice that you'd entered the room—did you make any notion of reproach."

"I could've been shocked into silence." John retorted.

"That long a silence? Not a chance. You'd have overcome your shock within the first five seconds and demanded I cover myself. Or at the very least made some kind of noise, alerting me of your presence. No, John Watson." he pointed the bow once again, eyes glittering mischievously and lips pulled into a self-impressed smirk. "You were_ looking_."

"I wasn't looking." John muttered, casting his eyes downward.

Sherlock set his violin upon the couch, carefully placing the bow beside it before stepping as close as possible to John. "The blush in your cheeks indicates you're lying."

"Stop trying to seduce me." John grumbled.

"Pardon?" Sherlock asked brightly.

"DEDUCE. Deduce. Deduce me."

John closed his eyes, exhaling. Sherlock was _too_ close. He could almost feel the heat of Sherlock's lean body radiating off of him. Could almost smell the soap he used. Could almost hear Sherlock's heartbeat. Or perhaps he was imagining it. Perhaps-but when he felt Sherlock's hands delicately grabbing his arms and pushing them downward… "John." Sherlock said quietly.

"What?" John asked shortly.

"John, I need your help."

He looked up finally, only to find that Sherlock was but inches away. His jaw tightened. "I need your help, with an experiment of mine." Sherlock went on. His voice was low, almost whispering. John wasn't supposed to find the purr of Sherlock's voice sensual, but he also wasn't supposed to find his spine or shoulder blades or bum sensual either. "And what's that?" he said finally. He locked his eyes onto Sherlock's, for fear of accidentally adding the rest of Sherlock's body to his memory bank.

"Something I've been pondering for quite some time now," Sherlock replied. He was closing the gap between them, his long, slender fingers walking up John's arms and resting on his shoulders. "Er… Sh-Sherlock…" John croaked. This was not a typical experiment. John's heart was racing again. Sherlock's naked body was pressed against him. He was sure Sherlock would be able to feel his heart beating against his own ribs. Sherlock's fingers crept upward more, cupping John's cheeks. "Help me?" Sherlock asked.

John cleared his throat. He wasn't quite sure what his emotions were playing at, nor any clue about his nerve endings, but he could feel his stomach tensing, and his head was giving short, involuntary nods. Sherlock gave one slow nod before leaning in and pressing his lips to John's.

Explosions. That's the closest thing that John could say he felt. Not fireworks, no lights danced before his closed eyes. It just seemed like each nerve in his body had been detonated simultaneously. And then they were done, they made their way again, only in waves that seemed to start from his lips and work their way downward, until they hit his toes. His hands were locked at his sides, unsure of whether or not Sherlock would want him to hold him close. He also wasn't sure of how long he would be able to_ resist._

Sherlock released his lips for a moment, bringing his face only a few inches away from John's. John, as it were, was shaking and speechless. Sherlock looked to the ceiling, his eyes squinted as though in thought. "That didn't quite feel right, did it?" Sherlock mumbled.

John had no reply. He thought, considering the circumstances of his now-questionable sexuality, that it was_ too _right. Sherlock then looked back to John. "No, I know. You weren't properly participating. It doesn't quite work one-sided. Now I need your participation John. It's very imporant."

"R-r-right." John stammered.

Once again, Sherlock kissed John.

It happened again. Explosives blowing up beneath his skin, bringing him to a boil. His coat, the one he still wore, was now causing him to sweat. _Participate_. Sherlock's voice commanded in his head. Nervously, he moved his lips against Sherlock's. His hands, quivering now, managed to make contact with the bare skin of Sherlock's waist. Sherlock's body jumped at the touch, but soon relaxed into his hands. He wasn't sure if he was doing it right, or what exactly he was doing, but he let instinct take over.

John's hands slid around, creeping over Sherlock's back. He took his time, tracing his fingers over the shoulder blades he'd admired from afar. He slid his fingertips gently down the deep groove of Sherlock's spine. It caused Sherlock's body to shove itself forward, though the move was completely impossible as they were already pressed together as close as science would allow. Sherlock's arms were wrapping themselves around John's neck.

He wasn't sure about Sherlock's deductions about this experiment, but John found himself enjoying every moment.

Sherlock stopped once again. His arms didn't drop from John's neck, nor did John release the hold of Sherlock's waist he had. Sherlock squinted at a place on the wall behind John's head, in thought once again. "Well. That was conclusive." he said finally.

"Conclusive of what, exactly?" John asked.

"Sexuality isn't _nearly_ as decisive or iron-plated as the general population is keen to think." he replied, an eyebrow arched. His eyes made there way down to John, who—once again—began to blush. Sherlock smirked, releasing John's neck and backing out of his arms. John didn't want to admit to the sudden empty feeling they held, but he couldn't help feel the weight of nothingness on them.

"So uh… what about that case then?" John asked, segueing uncomfortably.

"Practically solved. We need to head into Hampstead Heath to talk to an older woman who lived next door. She'll be my conclusive evidence. Be ready to leave in ten minutes." Sherlock said. Despite his nudity, he still felt like the authority figure in the room. John nodded, heading over to the desk as Sherlock stalked out of the room. "Oh and John?" Sherlock called from the other room.

"Yeah?" John called back.

"Do go check on Mrs. Hudson for me. I'm afraid she walked upstairs and caught a glimpse of my _experiment_."

With a horrible, terrible, _beautiful _redness in his cheeks, John nodded without replying and began traipsing down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's.


End file.
